How I Became Catholic

I grew up Baptist… or was it Methodist? Or non-denominational? Honestly, I’m not really sure. I went to Sunday school every Sunday and my mom taught us. I could recite all the books of the Bible — but I don’t think I ever truly understood what I was reading, or what it meant. I guess what I’m saying is that I was poorly catechized. That’s not an indictment of Protestants, or of my mother or father — they both did their best, and they always talked about God with us, though we did have a heavy focus on eschatology on my father’s side. And besides, Catholics tend to have real problems with poor catechesis these days too — something I’m hoping this site can help with.

I never truly followed the faith. I think I was baptized around twelve or fourteen, though honestly the memory is fuzzy now, in my thirties. By the time I was eighteen I was a drunk and an addict — just following the dopamine and worshiping it as the source of my life. Whatever felt good, I did. I was horrible, and still professing to be a Christian.

Then my best friend died when we were twenty-one. A major part of me died with him that day. To the point that… you could say I died with him that day. It was utterly devastating. He was not a Christian — and next thing you know, I’m having to come to terms with the fact that he never professed faith in Jesus, and with the repercussions of that belief system. I folded like a house of cards, because that’s all I was. I turned from my faith and from God. Oddly, I sobered up at the same time. Thinking myself some sort of intellectual, I went looking for any other explanation of life after death, any other faith to follow — and ultimately landed on… nothing. Ex nihilo nihil fit. Nothing comes from nothing, so we are nothing and there is nothing. (Completely twisting what that phrase actually means.) I did everything I could to fill that hole. I was successful, and fun, and I pursued fornication most fiercely, believing human connection was the most important thing there was. The problem was that I didn’t understand how to connect with humans — how to love. I only knew physical interactions.

I spent a decade in apostasy, pursuing whatever I wanted, with zero repercussions and no responsibility.

Until one day, repercussions came knocking — whether I wanted them to or not. I got my girlfriend pregnant. And I was… excited. It woke a part of me I didn’t know was there: the deep desire to be a father. I was also terrified. But I threw myself in head first, knowing that if I didn’t do it right, I would fail at this — and this was the one thing I refused to fail at, thanks be to God.

The relationship completely collapsed. Since I only knew the parody of love and not the real thing, I couldn’t love this person while they hurt me — and they did hurt me, a lot. And I hurt them. And then I was left with what felt like nothing. All I wanted was a family. All I wanted was to feel loved. All I wanted was to be a father and a husband. Life seemed so meaningless at that point. I couldn’t even figure out how to be a man — so how was I supposed to teach this little boy how to do it?

So I started searching, high and low: what does it mean to be a man? I looked everywhere I could think to look.

Until one day my son was playing on the floor and started crawling toward something that would have hurt him. I picked him up to stop it — and he slapped me and screamed. And in that moment the world fell away. The past ten years shattered into a million pieces, and the only thing I could think was: what must I look like to God?

So I started looking at Jesus. Here was a man who was Truth. Here was the man I had been looking for. I felt in my soul that I could trust everything He said, and I learned that to be a man, every step you take must be a step taken in love. But I still didn’t believe.

So I kept looking and researching. I read the Quran. I even read the Communist Manifesto. I ruled out any religion that said “we are good enough,” because I knew from my own unfortunate existence that that is not possible. And I started researching Christ — His claims, the Gospels. I was utterly astounded at the evidence in front of me. How faithfully the Bible was handed down. The fact that we have the Bible at all is a miracle from God.

So I read the Gospels while researching the historicity of Christ, and by the time I finished the Gospel of John, I didn’t just believe — I knew. Jesus of Nazareth was God incarnate, who died for our sins, was buried, and rose again on the third day — conquering death, breaking the ceiling, and reuniting us with God. I wept. Heavily.

So I started looking for a church, and found one just up the road in my little small town, and I just devoured Scripture and research. My dad got me a concordance; I still keep it on the coffee table and use it all the time. The first time I read the New Testament, all I saw was hope and glory. The second time I read it, I was terrified. Wheat and tares. Fruit, and no fruit but in bloom. Sheep and goats. I realized something was wrong. Someone got it wrong. Does baptism save? What is John 6 talking about? What are works? How are we justified, versus sanctified? No one — not one person I asked — gave me a good answer.

I kept digging and digging, and then I remembered something my dad said a lot when I was growing up: we’ve got to get back to the early Church. And I thought — well heck, it’s 2024. I can just read about it. I’m an expert at researching things. So I did. I started researching the historical Church, and one of the first documents I found was the Didache, from the earliest generations of the Church. I sent it to my dad for his thoughts. His response: “Be careful with this document, it’s very Catholic.” And my first reaction was — oh yeah, don’t want anything to do with those pagans.

Then, by the grace of God, I stopped myself. I had just spent a year on a search for truth, pulling every thread until I got to its core — and I was going to draw the line at the Catholics? What if they’re right? So I started digging.

Then I stumbled. I fell back into my old ways — this time with a Christian appearance on the outside, but just as wretched as ever. I prayed constantly for help. I asked everyone in church for help, and no one did. Every time it came up that I had a child out of wedlock and needed advice from a godly man, all I got was “well, I’ll pray for you.” And don’t get me wrong — prayer is great. But I needed advice, and I needed it now. I was starting to lose hope.

Until one day, in a stupor, I reached out to my ex — on the premise of returning some photos of her and her sister. We met up. I got there first, and I was terrified, because I had essentially ghosted her. So I drank, and was fairly lit by the time she arrived. We talked. She told me she had come back to Christianity and joined the Catholic Church. I was in awe — it was like I could see the Holy Spirit around her. She asked if I was busy. I wanted to say yes. But before I could say anything, she asked if I wanted to come to Adoration. I had no clue what that was, for some reason. I said yes.

So we went. I walked in, and it was strange. We were there maybe fifteen or twenty minutes, and all I could think about — in an almost obsessive way — was the heart of Jesus. To the point of tears. My heart ached for Him in a way it never had before.

So there I am: in a Catholic church, half drunk, at Adoration, in tears — because all I wanted was Jesus, and I felt like I had no business being there.

I woke up the next day changed. I had struggled with lust my entire life — it was what drove me — and it was just… gone. In the most profound way I have ever experienced. In a way I didn’t think was possible. Which led me to research again — but this time it was different. It was like the Holy Spirit was keeping me there until I found what He was trying to show me. I learned everything I could. I talked to priests, and dug, and read, and listened to thousands of hours of apologetics and debates, to the point of tears every single day. Father, release me from this. I just want to be with You. I don’t understand.

Until one day the Spirit sang. Well — more like bopped me on the head.

They were Jews.

And I was like: yes, yes, I know.

Jews.

Got it.

No. You don’t get it. They were Jews.

Yes, I know — Jesus and His twelve apostles were Jews.

No. You’re not getting it. THEY WERE JEWS.

Suddenly it hit me, all at once. I completely understood. The New Testament is hidden in the Old, and the Old is revealed in the New. Jesus Christ and His twelve apostles were Jews. There was no great re-write of the faith. It was fulfilled, just as Jesus said: “I have not come to abolish the Law, but to fulfil it” — to bring it into its fullness.

Like scaffolding falling away from a building, I saw it all come down. I had been reading the Bible wrong the entire time — reading it like an American in 2024 instead of like a first-century Jew. Suddenly the Catholic faith made complete sense. I attended my first Mass the next week, and I have not been able to stop since.

I have none to thank but God alone in this, and I will be forever grateful for it. Glory to Jesus Christ.